


Irresistible Attraction

by Terminality



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminality/pseuds/Terminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You contemplate going back to bed, but you've tried that, over and over, for the past two hours, and you can't sleep. You are caught up in the feeling of his hands on your sides and stomach, the memory of his lips and tongue on your nook and bulge, and you are too wound up and missing him too bad to find any kind of sleep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irresistible Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> More BroKat. I will sail this ship alone if I must.

You are standing in front of Bro's door, arms wrapped around your chest, and you are frozen in place. You're nervous, which is stupid, but it's the first time you have gone to him on your own terms, rather than the other way around, and a part of you worries what he'll say, that he won't be interested. You contemplate going back to bed, but you've tried that, over and over, for the past two hours, and you can't sleep. You are caught up in the feeling of his hands on your sides and stomach, the memory of his lips and tongue on your nook and bulge, and you are too wound up and missing him too bad to find any kind of sleep.

It's odd to acknowledge that, you think. That you're missing him. Funny that you'd feel something like that for a human, but you guess your quadrants are more than fucked up at this point, with the red-black flip you've somehow engaged in with every damn Strider alive. You've decided to try not to question it, because you're oddly content, and neither Dave nor his Bro seem to mind much that you are caught between the two of them.

You take a deep breath and straighten out the shirt you're wearing. It's one of Gamzee's, and you wonder if you should have tossed some pants on before making the five feet trek down the hall to Bro's room, but you figure it wouldn't matter much. You're just trying to stall now, talk yourself out of it, and you tell yourself to stop being such a blistering fuck of a troll and knock on the door in two quiet bursts.

"Ain't locked," he says, and you almost jump in surprise, he's answered you so fast. You take a moment to regain some composure - as much as you can, considering it must look pretty pitiable that you are coming crawling to him at four am in your moirail's clothing - before you open the door and step inside. You shut it behind you quietly, looking at anything but him, before he chuckles at you and draws your attention.

"Had a feeling it was you," he says, and you look up at him and the butterflies in your stomach kick into overdrive, beating against your ribs and abdomen, at the sight of him stretched across his bed, laptop perched on his bare chest, lazy smile directed at you.

You swallow down your nerves and climb into the bed next to him. He moves to the side to make room, and you lean against the headboard, close to him but not touching, and try to figure out what he is watching that is so important at four in the morning. It looks like some kind of cartoon, only a thousand times weirder, if the girl currently getting her head bit off is any indication.

Bro sure likes some weird as fuck stuff.

"What the hell are you watching?" You ask, and he shrugs.

"Shit," he says, nonchalant. You try to focus on it for a few minutes, since you're too nervous to talk and he's too laid-back to say something himself, but you can't really understand what's going on. You shift anxiously and he looks at you out of the corner of his eye before laughing, soft and gentle.

"What's up? I figure you probably didn't come in here to watch shitty TV shows with me," he says, closing out of the program and shutting his laptop. He leans over the edge of the bed to place the computer on the floor, and you can't help but stare at the exposed curve of his side, taut muscle and smooth, tan skin. He's incredibly attractive, shit. You stir against the headboard, uncomfortable now rather than nervous.

"I can't sleep in this stupid house, your hours are weird and there's too much noise from outside and," he sits upright and the look he gives you causes you to simply trail off, feeling childish. It's not why you're here. He knows it and you know it and you're embarrassed that he can read you so well, like an open book, without a single problem. You take a deep breath.

"C'mere," he says, and before you can move he loops an arm around your waist and pulls you down next to him. He stretches out on the bed with a deep sigh, and you follow suit, pressing your body into his side. His skin is warm to the touch and a little rough, pockmarked with scars and freckles, and you trace your fingers along the bigger of the marks. He snorts when you pass over his ribs, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Holy shit are you ticklish?" You ask, and he narrows his eyes at you and grabs your hand, engulfing it in his and holding it over the center of his chest. You can feel the scar from the wound that killed him against the back of your hand, a huge, rough tear, and you bite your lip. You've never seen it before, but you've always known it's been there, known how Bro died from Dave's viewport. You'd watched the scene over and over, certain there had been some mistake. It had cemented in your mind, at the time, how fucked the humans were. Bro had seemed the most capable of the group and he had died. It had pissed you off, for some unknown reason.

You didn't even know him then. Thinking back on it now, it makes your stomach churn.

"Tell anyone and I'll beat your ass," he says, and you scoff. There's another moment of awkward silence and you stare at the side of his face, nervous and uncertain, before he breaks the tension for you, arm around your shoulders and hand holding the back of your head and neck. He presses his lips to yours and you melt into his touch, desperate for this attention. He chuckles when you click in appreciation, a humming noise in the back of your throat, and he pulls back to look at you. You can feel how flushed your face is, can tell it's bright pink from a mix of arousal and nerves.

"You don't have to be so shy with me, you know," he mutters, and you furrow your brow and frown at him. You aren't shy! You're just nervous, or uncertain, or something else along those lines. Of course, it doesn't really help that Bro is the most straight-forward man in the entire world, as you're starting to realize, and maybe that's a little intimidating.

"I'm not shy! You're just frustrating and infuriating and a fucking mystery to me," you say, and he arches an eyebrow at you and you push against his chest with your fingers, trying to get him away from your face.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that! Ugh I'm just going to go back to bed if you don't stop being such a weirdo," you tell him, and he leans back and holds his arms out, like he's letting you go.

"Chances of that are pretty slim, baby. You'd be better off givin' up," he says, and you growl and grab the sides of his face and pull him down into a fierce kiss. Your not the best at it and your teeth are awkward compared to his, and you feel gross and horrible when his teeth click against yours on accident. If he hadn't been holding you against him you'd have backed off immediately, mortified with your own atrocious kissing skills, but he seems to either not care or is waiting to give you shit later.

He slips a hand up the back of your shirt at the same time he cups your ass in his other palm, and you squirm and whine into his mouth, your claws dragging along his scalp and hairline, earning you a brief hiss of noise. You pride yourself in getting a sound out of him, a feat normally impossible in any other event, and you make another pass of your nails along his skull and down the base of his head and neck, earning you a "hmm" of appreciation.

He pulls away from the kiss to give himself clearance to hike up your shirt, and he pulls it off and flicks it to the end of the bed in one fluid motion. He moves with a grace you'd have never expected him to possess, another of his many traits that you find irresistibly attractive. You wonder what in the world he could possibly see in you, ten sweeps old, barely five and a half feet tall, awkward and alien, and you think he is far too good for you, that there's no way you could possibly ever deserve the attention he gives you.

Like he can read your thoughts he presses a kiss to your chest and down to your abdomen, between your grub scars and along the curves of your sides, his hands continuing their mission of grabbing and caressing every free spot of skin on your body.

"I can tell exactly what bullshit you're getting caught up in. Knock it off," he tells you, and you open your mouth to tell him you can think whatever you'd like, fuck you kindly, but he is pulling off your underwear and making a show of trailing his fingertips along your nook and oh god why does he do that to you, he is going to kill you with this. You arch into his touch and moan your appreciation, and he laughs against your hip when you wiggle under his hands.

"You're perfect," he tells you, and you call him a liar, and mean to tell him more, but you can't really remember what you were going to say because his fingers are twining with your bulge and you're whining something that sounds suspiciously like his name into the crook of your elbow and fuck it, just fuck it. You are going to go along with this shitstorm of a quadrant flipping mess and enjoy yourself while you're at it. If Bro Strider thinks you are perfect then you are just going to go right along with that and try to ignore the heated flop of your stomach at the implications there.

"Wanna fuck you," he mutters, breath washing over your crotch and his tongue flicking out along the edge of your nook and you moan and squirm in response. You look down at him, propped against the pillows of his bed, his face buried in your crotch and his free hand palming his own erection through his pajama pants and you nod. You haven't gone that far with him yet, you're nervous and excited and you can feel your nerves on fire from your crotch to your toes to your scalp, but you're impossibly turned on and filled with a desire to make him happy, so you nod.

He pulls back, studies your face in the twilight of his room for a long moment.

"You sure that's okay?" You nod again, and he wastes no time in pulling his pajamas off and shoving them down to the end of the bed. He's not wearing underwear and he's already visibly hard, and you lick your lips because suddenly your entire mouth has gone dry. He climbs up the length of the bed, hands rubbing up and down your sides as he moves, and you drag your nails along his scalp the way he likes and shudder out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

"If it hurts I'll stop. Just let me know, not really sure how this whole interspecies deal works down there," he says, and you flush in embarrassment and arousal and nod.

"It's possible and don't even give me that look it's not like you didn't know Dave and I have fucked," you say, and he barks out a laugh at your forwardness. You're too horny and too irritated to give much of a fuck right now, want him to just move already, and you don't even care how awkward it might sound to tell Dave's older brother that he fucked you once (or twice or something you really don't keep track of these things).

"True, you got me there. Just lookin' out for you is all, baby," he says, and you simultaneously hate and love that he calls you that. Pet names were something you were new to when you started sleeping with Dave, and although Bro only calls you "baby," Dave has invented an entire slur of idiotic names he calls you during sex. "Babe" is probably the most normal of his arsenal. Compared to Dave's litany of creative nicknames and pathetic dirty talk, Bro's use of "baby" is a welcome (and somehow incredibly sexy?) change of pace.

The differences of sleeping with Striders, as presented to you by one Karkat Vantas, a troll who has lost complete control of his own life.

Bro kissing you on the mouth makes you forget about awkward nicknames and how terrible and confusing your love life is, and you kiss back eagerly, hands clawing at his back and ass impatiently. He's significantly taller and broader of chest and shoulder than you, and when he's pressed over you like this you feel completely enveloped by him, a comforting, warm feeling. You can't help but compare him to Dave, who's taller than you but significantly skinner, and you feel guilty for even noting the difference. You aren't really sure why.

You don't come to a conclusion on that because Bro is suddenly rocking against your nook, dick flushed against your crotch, and you whine and squirm under him, hands clutching his shoulders. He reaches between you and drags his fingers along your nook before guiding his dick in you and you press down against him as he presses up into you and fuck, it feels overwhelming and intense and great all at once and you don't even realize you're making that horrible high-pitched sound you've been hearing until Bro is kissing the top of your head and hushing you.

"You okay? Karkat?" He sounds concerned and you nod against his chest and flush in embarrassment.

"Just a bit more than normal," you say, as way of explanation, because he is bigger than Dave and it hurts a little more than you're used to, troll nooks aren't really meant for human penises, and he chuckles and presses a few more kisses into your hair.

"Careful, a guy could use that as blackmail," he says, and you can't think of a good response because he's rocking forward against you again and you groan and claw at his shoulders. It's overwhelming, and your breath is coming in rough, broken gasps, and he holds you under him and touches you all over, one hand shoved between you to squeeze your bulge, the other pressed into the bed at the side of your face to hold himself up. You tilt your head and bite at his forearm, an action that earns you a moan in response.

"God damn," he groans, and he presses his face into your hair between your horns and you can feel his body shudder above you, under your hands on his chest and sides and ass. He mutters your name and kisses your head and it's over, you lose it in a flood of warmth over your skin and through your nook and you hiss and bite at his arm as you ride the waves of your orgasm. He moves with you through it, slow and gentle, and he pulls his hand away from your bulge to trail his fingers, sticky with your genetic fluid and your combined sweat, along your jawline. You open your mouth when he presses his fingertips to your lips and you flick out your tongue, the bitter taste of your own fluid sharp at the back of your throat, and he hums in appreciation.

"So fuckin' hot," Bro mutters, and you bite at his fingertips and he hisses and thrusts into you one last time before he climaxes, hand moving from your mouth to the back of your head, breath coming out in short huffs against your horns and scalp. He shudders on top of you, rides his wave of orgasm with a few more gentle thrusts into you, and when he pulls out and lies down at your side you are sore and over-sensitive and extremely pleased. You lie side by side, staring at the ceiling for a long moment, before he nudges you with the back of his hand and you flip to face him. He pulls you against his chest, and he flips onto his back, one arm loop around your shoulders and the other tucked behind his head.

"Think you can sleep now?" he says, and you scoff and flick him half-heartedly on the chest, because it's a stupid thing to say post-sex (although, to be honest, you've learned most things are stupid things to say immediately after sex), although you can already feel yourself heavy with sleep.

"Fuck you, Dirk," you tell him, and he stiffens and looks down at you impassively for a long moment before laughing.

"Never said you could call me that, baby. Don't know if you get that special privilege yet," he says, and you don't really understand why he's so fucking weird about his name but you shrug and roll your eyes at him dramatically. 

"Do you care if I stay here? Don't feel like walking all the way back," you ask, and he nods.

"Didn't expect you to just run off. What kind of man would I be, sending you back to your own room after the deed is done?" You block most of that sentence out, too tired to deal with Bro's strange late-night ramblings, and you pass out tucked into the side of his chest before you can even get dressed again.

He wakes you up an hour later to tell you to at least put some clothes on and that his arm has gone numb, and you growl at him, steal all the blankets, and fall back asleep.

You'll regret that later, when you wake up stark naked in his bed and the embarrassment and guilt drop kicks you in the stomach again. But for right now, you're pretty damn content.


End file.
